


Camp Hawthorn

by trustsherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidlock, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustsherlockholmes/pseuds/trustsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young John Watson is ecstatic to be spending his first extended stay away from home, seeing the world on his own, at no other than Camp Hawthorn. Little does John know what adventures await him that summer, and summers beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camp Hawthorn

“Are you sure you have everything, John? Did you pack away all the clothes I put out for you?” 

The eleven year old, though hearing very well what his mother had asked, found himself unable to respond. Roughly five minutes earlier they had turned off of the slick asphalt highway, and were now bouncing and skidding over red dirt and loose stones down a private drive lined with various species of trees, some John recognized from the survivalist books his father had purchased for him on his last birthday. He wasn’t entirely sure why – they lived in a rather quiet suburban neighborhood, where the closest thing resembling nature was the hedges they kept trimmed within an inch of their life and Mrs. Gray’s birdbath that was constantly covered with a film of algae. No birds had bathed there in years. 

There was a second of silence, Mrs. Watson rising up in her seat, eyes flitting between the rearview mirror and the winding road. 

“ _John_? Did you hear me?” 

He started at the urgent tone, nodding rapidly as he leaned up, chest restrained by the seatbelt. 

She chuckled, manicured nails gripping the visor, tugging it to eye level. Her lips pursed, face contorting humorously as she checked her makeup. “What did I say then?” 

“You asked me if I had everything, and I do,” John answered without a breath, knowing his mother well enough to be able to respond without even really hearing what she had asked. She definitely was not a spontaneous woman. Entirely too predictable. Though he supposed every mum was. 

“Bandages too?” she pressed, apparently deciding that her face couldn’t be improved anymore and letting the visor snap back into place. John had a terrible habit of getting injured, and bandages had become necessities in the Watson household. 

He reached over to his duffle that he had taken the liberty of buckling in as well, patting the fat pocket containing the box of cheap bandages with a smug smile. 

“Good. That’s good.”

John waited, counting to twenty, and when she did not procure another question for him, he went back to watching the forest from his window, swearing to himself that if he squinted hard enough he could form out shadows and figures in the shadows lurking deep in the recesses of the gnarled branches. 

“Mum? Do you think these woods are haunted?” 

“Haunted?” she repeated amusedly, brakes screeching as she came to a rolling stop at an intersection, glancing down either side of the barren road before continuing on. “Why on earth would they put a camp in the middle of a haunted forest, John Watson?” 

John shrugged, absentmindedly chewing on his lower lip as his fingers crept back over the seat, peeking into the small gap of the zipper he had left open, sighing in relief as he stroked the familiar fur of his ragged stuffed rabbit. 

“Maybe to keep kids inside after dark. Or maybe they’re _all_ ghosts, and they eat the campers!” he shouted, clamping his mouth shut as the raise in his voice earned him a stern look from the front seat. 

“You’ve been watching too much telly,” Mum replied, tires rumbling as they crossed a wooden bridge. “Maybe you can put that imagination to good use at camp.” 

John didn’t answer – there was a break in the trees ahead, exposing a wide parking lot, filled to the brim with vehicles and milling families. The car lurched as they traversed the bridge, creeping beneath a sign carved from knotted wood, hanging high above the road. 

‘CAMP HAWTHORN’

John narrowed his eyes, mind devotedly trying to mouth out that enormous word, a wide smile spreading over his mouth as it finally clicked. Hawthorn. It was a type of tree he recognized from the survivalist book. 

This would mark the milestone as his first adventure away from home for an extended period of time. Of course, there were the summer visits to his grandparent’s cottages, but those didn’t count. Even babies went to their grandparent’s to stay a while. No, this was bigger. Much bigger. He would be spending two weeks here, alone, with nothing but the grand wilderness and a handful of campers he was sure would become his best mates. 

By that point, John’s seatbelt had been forgotten, and he was crowding the window, nose pressed flat against the glass as he peered out eagerly at each individual they drove by. A few even giggled and pointed at him, but he didn’t mind in the least. He reckoned he looked rather silly. 

“Here we are!” Mum announced in a singsong voice, pulling into an available parking spot at the end of the flat bit of dirt. 

John wasted no time in snatching up his duffle, tossing it over his shoulder in a flurry of legs and flailing arms as he shoved out the door, narrowly missing putting a pretty dent in a neighboring Bentley. The dirt crunched beneath his trainers, the rare Cumbria sun shimmering down on his elated face, offering the world his gap toothed smile. The tooth – his favorite one, left canine- had been knocked clean from his skull in a rugby accident, and they didn’t have the funds to replace it. 

Mum met him at the trunk of the car, hands immediately clasping around his plump cheeks, back hunching as she leaned closer to inspect him. A bit of ketchup from lunch stained the corner of his mouth, hastily removed by a saliva-moistened thumb, but no worse for wear. 

“I’m going to miss you,” she said, and John could hear the hint of tears lacing the edge of her tone. Damage control. 

“I’m _fine_ , Mum. I’m a big kid, remember? That’s why I’m here!” 

She smiled sadly, nodding once before pulling him into a suffocating embrace. She smelled of her typical perfume she spritzed on daily, just beneath her ears, and John inhaled appreciatively. It would be his last whiff for quite a while. 

“You be safe, do you hear me?” She pulled away, ruffling the recently cut blond locks, lightened by the sun. “You listen to everything your counselor says, and you have my number in your bag if you need to call me. I’ll be here as soon as possible, okay?” 

John nodded, bouncing on his toes as he tried to wriggle out of her grasp, stealing a glance over her shoulder. There was an enormous cabin farther up on the hill, across the expanse of grass, and that was where everybody was heading, whether accompanied by their family or going it alone. 

“Okay, okay, I can tell when I’m not wanted anymore,” she joked, chuckling and dabbing at her eyes with her fingertips. “Run along, then. Head straight up to the cabin and let them know you’ve arrived.” 

“Got it!” John replied loudly, glad to actually be out of the car and allowed to use his naturally thundering voice. He was definitely not a quiet child, and everybody around him for a short period of time knew it. 

Lifting his thumb in affirmation, she waved her fingers at him, and he was gone, staggering under the weight of his colossal bag that bumped unhelpfully against his back. Weaving through a pair of parked vehicles, he turned as his shoes touched the grass, waving ecstatically as he spotted his mother pulling out of the parking lot. But she wasn’t looking at him. Hovering in front of the rearview, John could have sworn that there were trailed lines of mascara pooling beneath her eyes, and she was working to scrub them away with a napkin. But that was silly. His mum had no reason to cry. 

A shout of excitement from up ahead caught his attention, and he zeroed in on two young girls colliding together in a fierce hug, both babbling about school and summer and ‘Oh I’ve missed you _so_ much!’. Half his mouth lifted in a smile, and he briefly wondered if he would have a friend like that to come back to next year. 

The line into the main cabin moved surprisingly quickly, and before John had a chance to let his mind wander _too_ far, he was standing at attention in front of a long table, in the presence of an elderly woman, hair lifted from her neck in a tight bun, wrinkles mapping out the contours of her face. 

“Hello there!” she chirped, smiling warmly at him. “I’m Mable, but you can call me Miss Brown. And what is your name, sweetie?” 

“John,” he answered confidently, standing a bit taller. “John Watson.” 

“John Watson. Let’s see here…” Miss Brown trailed off, clicking her teeth in concentration as she shuffled through her pages secured on her clipboard, eyes scanning from side to side. “Ah! Yes, here you are! John Watson, in Cabin 221. If you’ll go right over there to that boy wearing the blue handkerchief on his head-“ she pointed out a rather stocky boy standing in the corner by the farthest door, mousy hair fenced by a cobalt handkerchief, folded and tied tightly – “he’ll tell you exactly where to go.” 

John thanked her politely, hefting up his bag and peeling away from the line of campers, crossing the room to the targeted boy. He was wearing a yellowed t-shirt, which after some calculations, John realized had ‘Counselor’ printed across the chest. He was fiddling with a whistle, glancing randomly over the crowded room before his eyes fell on John, and he melted into a wide smile. 

“Hey, bud! Can I help you out?” 

You know how there are certain people you meet, and you can tell straight away that you like them, without even really knowing them? John Watson liked this boy, and he wasn’t even aware of his name. But that didn’t matter. He was friendly and something about his face was incredibly trusting, and that ebbed John’s bravery all the more. 

“The lad--…Miss Brown told me to come talk to you. I’m in Cabin two hundred and twenty-one,” he stammered out with some difficulty. 

“Two-twenty-one?! That’s my cabin! I’m your counselor! My name’s Greg, what’s yours?” 

A large, calloused hand was shoved at John, and he lowered his bag to the floor to grip it, the appendage nearly swallowing his whole. 

“John Watson.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, John! We’re going to have some fun this summer, just you wait! Now today, where it’s Arrival, we’ll just be getting everyone settled into their cabins and meeting one another. Not much going on today. Now _you_ need to head out to the cabin and begin unpacking.” 

The other hand cupped John’s shoulder, steering him toward the opened door that was doing a marvelous job of filtering in a breeze from outside. Once John crossed the threshold, the boy pointed to the line of cabins surrounded the shore of the lake, each painted with a golden number shimmering beside the front windows. 

“Just follow the path until you get to our cabin. You’re free to go inside and pick whichever bunk you want. Only one other camper has arrived so far, so there should be plenty of top bunks left. There’s always a fight for those.” 

Greg winked down at him, and John returned the gesture with a smile, trotting down the set of steps leading down to the grass out back. The stiff breeze rippled the lake, tiny waves lapping against the shoreline, sunlight fracturing the deep emerald hue all the way to the sandy bottom. It took all of his willpower not to trudge through the shallows right then and there. But no, he had a job to do. This was his first adult responsibility of his life – making his own way to his cabin, choosing his bed, and unpacking his things. He couldn’t mess this up. Along his journey, he noticed another line of cabins on the far side of the lake, along with a parade of girls that branched off into each building. Obviously, that side of the lake was the girl’s side. John didn’t mind that one bit. Girls were loud, shrill, confusing creatures who didn’t appreciate mud on dresses or frogs. No, not his type of company at all. 

Cabin 221 was the final cabin in the row, and John paused in front of the humble structure, one hand propped on his hip. The wooden panels were stained from years of exposure to water, the edges of the planks jagged and splintered. The painted numbers were lackluster and peeling, the window beside them filthy and cracked near the bottom left corner. The tin roof was littered with pine needles and curled leaves, most brown and rotting. It was as though the rest of camp had forgotten about this lonely cabin, tucked out of sight from prying eyes. But John was immediately smitten with it. It was the type of place a woodsmen, a genuine woodsmen, would be happy to live in, and so he was. 

Marching up the creaking steps, the battered screen door screeched its protest as he tugged it open, coughing at the stale air that was sucked into his lungs. It was incredibly vacant inside. There were two rows of bunks, two on each side, and a single bed propped in the corner to the far left. John guessed that was for Greg, the counselor. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling on a dangerous looking wire, and with how dark it was in this place, John predicted it would be turned on before long. The only other interesting thing about this large room was the boy currently wrestling with his bag on the first top bunk to the left, back turned to the entrance. 

“Erm…hello?” John said softly, tilting his head. The boy’s head whipped around, a single finger pushing his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. 

He was a pudgy boy; not exactly fat, but not the thinnest person John had ever seen. Dressed in a plaid button up and beige shorts that hung to his knees, he dangled his legs over the edge of the bunk and leapt to the floor with a thud, sniffling loudly as he sized this new stranger up. 

“Hi!” the boy barked at him, and John took a step back, bewildered for a moment. “I’m Mike. Mike Stamford. This is my first time at camp. I’m nervous, but Mum packed me all sorts of things to remind me of home. I’m trying to get out my racecar lights right now. Do you want to help me?” 

John blinked, glancing up at the precarious top bunk. 

“Uh…yeah, sure. I’ll help you.” 

“Great!” Mike grinned at him, scaling the ladder, being sure to leave enough room for John to sit on one end of the bed. The lights were indeed in the shapes of racecars – red and blue – and John took a brief second to ogle them before grabbing the end closest to him, helping the other boy untangle the mass of cord. 

“What’s your name?” 

“John Watson,” he said, for what felt like the thousandth time that day. He never thought he would see a time when he would grow tired of his own name, but he needn’t grow exhausted of it yet. He betted that he would say it at least a thousand times more before lights out that night. 

“Have you ever been to camp before?” 

“No. This is my first time too.” 

“Good! I was worried I would be the only one that had never been before. Mum told me that was silly, but she tells me a lot of things I think are silly, so I don’t listen to her really. I hope our cabin wins the competition this year!” 

“Competition?” John asked, eyes narrowed, hands in an awkward jumble with the lights. 

“Yeah, the camp competition! Didn’t you read the brochure they sent out?” 

He flushed heavily, shaking his head. Truth was, he had tried to read the brochure countless times by torch under his duvet, but the large words never really made sense in his head. 

“Oh. Well, each cabin chooses their mascot, and we all compete as teams against other cabins, and the winners at the end of the two weeks get their own medals and a parade! Doesn’t that sound fun?!”

John had a feeling that that was the angle Mike’s mum used to tempt him into leaving for the summer. He couldn’t really blame her. He doubted he could stomach Mike for two weeks, let alone three months. 

Without waiting for an answer, Mike gave a sudden jerk and a triumphant cry, the mass of lights finally coming undone. Biting down on a space of cord, he dug through the side pocket of his bag, pulling out a roll of electrical tape and set off to work securing the lights above his bunk. 

“You’d better hurry and choose your bed,” he mumbled around the mouthful of lights, tape ripping violently. “The others will be here soon. You want to get a good one.” 

He needed no other prodding, sliding backwards off the bunk until his trainers met the wooden floorboards, stooping to snatch up his bag. After eons of internal debate, he decided on the top bunk on the farthest right, away from the counselor’s bed and far enough from the front window so that the morning sun wouldn’t blind him first thing when he woke up. Plus, after being with his ‘team’ all day doing various activities, it would be nice to be able to hide away in the back of the cabin without bother. 

Hauling back his bag, he released a battle cry as he tossed it up onto the bunk, hastily following on the ladder. It was hotter up near the ceiling, the woody scent of the cabin wafting among the flat pillow that made him rejoice that he had been smart enough to pack his own. It smelled like home, and made the stained mattress look far more inviting. Ripping open his bag, he tugged out his blanket first, the crocheted one his grandmother had made for him before he had even been born. Perhaps it was childlike to bring a ‘blanky’ to camp, but this was his adventure, and he was going to do it the way he pleased. 

Thumper, his stuffed rabbit, followed next in the procession, fur flattened from being stuffed in the overcrowded bag. John glanced over his shoulder wearily at Mike, who was still fighting with his lights, and shoved the rabbit without fanfare beneath his pillow. It made an odd lump, but he supposed nobody would be up there to spot it. The screen door creaked open again, and John looked up just in time to see a tall boy looking roughly his age step into the cabin, legs spread in an almost victorious stance. 

He wore jeans, shredded at the knees, and trainers whose soles flapped lifelessly along the floorboards. A thick scar carved around his left eye, hair so blond it almost hurt to look at, gapped in certain places. John guessed that he had tired of his old style and had decided to give it a cut himself, with horrendous results. But with his tiny chest puffed out and his eyes challenging, John didn’t think he minded. 

Mike soared from his bunk once more, introducing himself loudly, and John overheard the newcomer stating his name like it was a title to be worn with pride. ‘Sebastian Moran’. 

Sebastian staked claim to the second bottom bunk in the row to the left, where he had an eerie view of John from beneath the rungs of the ladder. John avoided his heated gaze at all costs, busying himself with unpacking. Over the next few minutes, the door screeched open four more times. One was a boy named Ralph Dimmock, an awkward looking bloke whose face was set in a stern scowl that made him look years beyond eleven. He took the first free bunk on the right, the one before John’s. Barely after Ralph had propped his trunk against the bedpost, another boy bounded into the cabin, bright eyed and stumbling over his own legs to the bed beneath Mike’s. His name was Paul Carter, and John made a mental note to never be partners with him in sporting events. He looked almost dangerous, with long flailing limbs and legs littered with bruises. 

The next arrival was Neilson Archer, who arrived in a flurry of sneezes and billowing tissues pressed to his nose. “Allergies,” he mumbled miserably before moving to the bunk above Sebastian’s. 

Next came a boy that Mike greeted excitedly, so John took it that they had met previously. He missed out on the first part of his name, only catching a delighted ‘Anderson!’ over the steady babbling. Turning on his heel, Anderson gave John a piercing look before taking the top bunk above Dimmock without so much as a smile shared between them. 

At that point, all the bunks were filled with chattering boys. All except for one. The mattress beneath John remained wholly empty, and he swung his head down, hair standing on end as he sighed at the grubby polyester. He would hate to be the only camper without a bunk mate. What had made him seem undesirable to the others? John thought he looked fairly friendly, and he had certainly smiled his brightest at each boy who skipped through the door. Maybe there _were_ no other campers. Maybe nobody wanted to be his friend…

All heads turned as the door screeched again, two people shuffling in at the same time. John immediately recognized the tallest one as Greg, their counselor. He had a firm grip on the elbow of a lanky boy, both their faces set in looks of anger. 

“I don’t care _what_ you were doing, campers are not allowed on the roof of cabins, even to gather leaves!” Greg huffed at the boy, who wrenched his arm from Greg’s grasp, fixing him with a dirty stare before marching over toward John’s bunk, positively fuming. 

This newcomer was shockingly tall, having nearly a head on John, height emphasized by a mop of unruly curls that spiraled from his scalp in all directions, bouncing freely with each stomp. His face was sharp, made entirely of stony angles and prominent cheekbones that set off his unfriendly eyes, pale and unidentifiable in color. He was wiry, made of long limbs that looked far too difficult to control, but he had made an art form of it. Not bothering to give John a hello, he tossed his small pack beneath his mattress with one snap of his wrist and disappeared beneath John’s bed, the swaying of the bunk the only indication that he had ever really been there. 

“Alright!” Greg called out from the head of the cabin, fishing out a pen from behind his ear as he brandished his own clipboard, offering all the campers a wide smile. “I’m going to do a quick roll call, then I’ll let you guys know the rest of the plans for today.”

Greg went through the names, pen making a bold line through each one as John tossed his nearly empty bag over the bedpost, leaving only his clothes and bathroom necessities. There was nowhere else they could be put really, unless he stuffed them beneath his mattress. Though his mum would probably have a heart attack at the end of the two weeks at the state of his wrinkled and stained clothing, that was a problem for the future, and he could worry about that then.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Greg shouted out, shooting a pointed glance to the sulking boy beneath John, which earned him an annoyed huff of attendance. 

“And we’re all accounted for! Wonderful! Welcome to Camp Hawthorn! As I said to you all earlier, I am Greg Lestrade, your counselor for this summer. Mike, you cannot have a cake in the cabin!”

There was a disappointed whine from the front of the cabin, and John snickered to himself.

“My job is to make your fun as easy and organized as possible. I’m also here if you run into any problems, or just want to talk about what’s bugging you.” 

There was an amused snort beneath John at that, and he blushed for the boy, despite having only known him for all of three minutes. Greg ignored the rude interruption, however. 

“Today, considering the day is almost over—“ he pointed to the window, where the sun was beginning to set over the trees on the other side of the lake in an explosion of color –“ we’ll just finish up unpacking, maybe play a few games inside the cabin, and get to know each other a bit. Sound good?” 

Mike answered excitedly for all of them, and John rolled his eyes to the rafters before rolling onto his side, peeking over the railing as he sensed a faint rush of movement below. Sherlock was perched on the edge of his mattress, pack opened, a sizable pile of books being stacked neatly alongside his bed. His long finger tapped the spine of each one, as though taking mental stock of his supply, when suddenly his shoulders tensed, pale eyes snapping up at the ceiling to glare at John. John gasped in shock, arms scrambling for purchase before ducking back and out of sight, clamping his limbs tightly against his body to avoid anything touching the edge of the bed. 

By then, the other boys were slowly coming to life, Sebastian dangling from the edge of Dimmock’s bed like a monkey and Mike plopping down on the corner of Anderson’s mattress, jabbering away about a birthday party he had been to recently after having disposed of his own impressively decorated cake in one of the bins outside by the lake. Greg was attempting to set his digital alarm clock, and John’s mind inwardly groaned as he saw the red numbers flash to 7:00 AM before going back to the current time. 

But John lay there, staring up at the wood, making the dark whorls and splotches into shapes they weren’t and he thought. He thought about why his mother was suddenly so adamant about sending him to camp, though he didn’t question her motives. He wondered what they were doing right now, without him. Maybe Harry had badgered their parents into letting her spend the night at a friend’s. Mum was probably baking, or cleaning. She was doing that more often now. John would feel bad at times and offer to help, but she always turned it down. And his father was drinking. There was no ‘probably’ to that. It was a regular occurrence in the Watson household for Mr. Watson to drink each evening. Sometimes he would get loud and break things, but Mum always told John it was okay, so he knew it was. Parents didn’t lie to kids. 

The night wore on, Greg trying to start a game of ‘Go Fish’ with them that ended when only three of the boys joined him on the dirty floor, and Sebastian kicked through the cards when he didn’t win, sending them fluttering in all directions. At around ten, the lights were flicked off, and the world outside came to life as the nocturnal creatures and bugs announced their presence to the glittering night sky, the moon hanging low in their window. John toed off his shoes, stubbing them down between the railing and the mattress so they wouldn’t fall off in the middle of the night, and huddled beneath his familiar blanket, clutching his familiar Thumper and thought for the first time since arriving that this may have been a not good idea. As the veil of sleep closed in on him, he awaited for Sherlock to tuck himself in as well. He fell asleep waiting.


End file.
